Torment
by DragonsDeadAndDancing
Summary: Blood...and vamps...and torture...get Molag Bal from my head! I think the M is justified.


**I need an exorcism! I'm possessed by Molag Bal! Help!**

**I'd never thought I would write something M-worthy; but this contains vampires, torture, feeding, blood, and I think something related to sex too. It's nearly always sex with vampires, no? Like light and mosquitos. Be careful!**

**Bethesda, blablabla. You know.**

Isran didn't hear them in the night. He only heard the people dying – and then he felt the hands, two pair of cold, soft hands, but with a hard grip, seizing him and binding him to the torture rack. Then they took him out to the railing. He couldn't see anything, but now it changes. Through little windows the first rays of the sun enter the castle.

A creaking sound accompanies the opening of the gigantic shutters over the main hall. Inch by inch, they creep apart, and the light flooding in reveals a picture of horror.

On the floor, the dead lay. Carefully arranged, hand touching foot touching cheek. In a mockery of the old unity. There is only little blood.

They come. The woman from the right, the other from the left. This was a promising recruit, stronger than the others, but now pulsing with new-found power.

They smile under the blood that covers them like a second skin and their eyes gleam excitedly.

"Look", the woman whispers. Serana.

"Look", the other echoes.

In disgust, Isran turns his head away, but the recruit just laughs softly. With one hand gripping his head firm, the leader of the Dawnguard is forced to look at the bloody slaughter. He tries to squeeze his eyes shut, but Serana places two fingers on his lids, holding them open.

"How does this feel?", she hisses, her mouth next to Isran's ear so her cold breath caresses his cheek. "Do you enjoy it too?"

They release him. With dagger-sharp fingernails, they cut away his clothes, careful not to break the skin. Just some coarse hair and dozens of scars cover him now.

A pale, cold hand slides over his cheek. Serana drops in a crouch before him, studies his features. She runs her fingers over his bald head, his broken nose, his thick eyebrows. With a smile she draws closer. Her tongue shoots out of her mouth and traces his cheekbones, barely touching him.

Suddenly her whole mouth is on his cheek, sucking and nibbling at the skin. One of her teeth touches it, draws blood – and the recruit's fangs bury themselves in Isran's neck.

He has never felt such an agony before. His screams do not leave his throat, but he tries nonetheless, screams without making a sound, for an eternity.

The vampires had obviously fed in the night, but the recruit sucks the blood greedily, tears at his skin and veins. The pain shoots from Isran's neck through his body, hot and searing, like something evil and poisonous is filled in his veins rather than something necessary taken.

He does not know how long he hangs on the rack, the two vampires feeding from him, side by side. Serana joins the recruit at the neck; their cheeks touch, their fingers entwine while they suck in silence.

Finally their fangs leave him; it feels reluctantly, slowly, like they want to touch human flesh as long as possible. Isran is hardly able to keep his eyes open. Black spots dance through his vision and his limbs feel leaden; maybe he could rest, only for a second, just for a moment…

But they are not done. Not yet. The recruit runs a hand over his arm, to the hand and the fingers. With a smile and a small movement – he cannot see it – a bone breaks. The sharp, snapping sound echoes in the bight, round room, followed by Isran's pained scream.

Like a spell was broken, a border crossed, the vampires start to inflict more agony on him, working together harmoniously to create the greatest possible suffering. Isran's bones shatter, his skin is torn to shreds or covered with black bruises – in the few moments not filled with pain he wonders why he has that much blood left. Then he drowns again in the crimson waves of suffering, while they cut and slash and hit.

When they cease to torment him, all he can do is to wait and whimper. What will come next?

The answer follows swift and merciless: Fingernails run over his so far untouched back, on both sides of the spine. Ten thin searing lines form an elaborate pattern of swirls and curls and circles and pain. Never do the sharp claws stop or falter; they leave a terrible yet beautiful mark on their victim's body.

The loss of blood, the suffering, the shock and the grief are too much for Isran. He falls unconscious during the sadistic procedure, but the recruit doesn't stop until the work is done. With a satisfied smile, the vampire turns to Serana, who takes the claws in her mouth and starts to lick Isran's blood off them.

"What shall we do with him now?", the recruit whispers.

Serana looks at the human like a child looks at a broken toy. She shrugs, then gives the rack a hard shove. With a crunch, it hits the floor and the wood shatters as well as Isran's skull between the bodies of his old comrades.

The recruit laughs and Serana grins. Arm in arm, they leave the fort, and not even the sun can put an end to their joy.


End file.
